Moon Walk

Last night was the full Harvest Moon and the clouds broke in the late afternoon, so that we could hold our annual Moon Watch. Usually we make dinner and drive to Chip Ross Park, where we eat, watch people and their dogs come and go, and wait for the moonrise. Last night, we decided to walk. I packed cheese rolls, salad, corn on the cob, and chocolate into our day packs, grabbed an extra layer or two from the drawers, and we headed uphill.

                It was a lovely warm evening. The light was golden as the sun set; the air was still and quiet; the ground smelled of dampness from a recent rain. We walked from our densely populated neighborhood through Ranchland, and then into the undeveloped area on the hills, finally cresting into the park. The world dropped away and we arrived at the picnic table a little after seven.  Dog Walk time. The world grew dimmer. People came out of the park and pulled away. The church let out around eight and all of the cars left, taillights bright in the darkness. We were alone, standing on the gravel mound, waiting for the moon, which was, as always, later than expected and NOT where we were watching. When it finally appeared, it was bands of deep orange light, blocked by the ridges of clouds backed up against the Cascades. As it rose, it rapidly shifted in color to yellow, then cream emerging about the distant clouds.  We cheered,  picked up our backpacks, and started down the trail.

                Gravel crunched underfoot. Crickets and birds called back and forth as we walked the broad trail into the park. Up and down the hills, watching for the high point where the trail back to town drops off the side of the slope. There—right after the dark space of trees, two posts. Down. We leave the gravel behind, walk down the dirt, worn by both feet and mountain bikes. A bit of a gully.  On the south side, the moon, huge and creamy, peeks between the huge twisted branches of the oaks and then disappears again. Stars wink above. Below, we can see the lights of town, moving from curving roads of the hillsides to the straight runways of the older gridded streets. The slight breeze has died. The air is warm and still. Down, down, down, we drop, feeling our way. I can barely see Mark in front of me; he does not always notice when I stop to watch the moon. The slope opens up, moonwashed, into a meadow and the trail ahead is clear. We swing to the right, towards a wash of willows, blackberry, and fir, knowing that the trailhead is not far away. As we move through the wash, we can barely see. Mark pokes ahead with his walking stick; I follow my memory. In the brush, a deer jumps up and runs away, startled by our presence. Mark jumps. “It’s a deer,” I say, “not the cougar.”  One more small meadow, then civilization.

                Even when we move onto sidewalk, the evening is still and silent. It could be one AM by the traffic. No one else is out on this beautiful evening; we have the sidewalks to ourselves.  Moon and street lights create our shadows, dappled in leaves, moving quietly downhill.  

Shrinking Corvallis, one step at a time

                Three years ago, Mark and I walked across England. For 17 days we walked, about 200 miles total(not counting wrong paths and hunts for dinner places), and was one of the coolest things we have ever done. To prepare for the walk, we decided to walk 12 to 14 mile loops from our front door, throughout town and into the hills. Because it was springtime, we could not head for the mountains; the trails there are still covered in snow. So, every Saturday, I used google maps to lay out the walk, and then we hit the sidewalk on Sunday mornings, rain or shine.

 The first one was easy; we followed the route of the Corvallis Half Marathon which took us through neighborhoods we rarely visit. 13.5 miles. We discovered a new park and play structure, some nice bike trails through the suburbs, and came home through Ranchland.  The next was also easy—we walked the ridgeline north of town through the McDonald forest, which helped me understand the relationship between the hills, saddles, and valley floor. 11 miles. Now, when I am driving the countryside, I can line myself up with the hills and know where I am. For the third walk, we rounded the university, visited the urban horticulture center with its beehive museum, walked through Avery Park and the old community garden, then strode along the Willamette river to the south edge of town. We came home through downtown and stopped for iced tea. 14 miles. I traced routes through town for two months; on our final walk, we headed to Dimple Hill from our house, fourteen miles with considerable elevation change. We came home triumphant.

                The hikes prepped us for our long walk, but they had a more profound impact as well. They shrank and expanded our understanding of our town and local geography. Corvallis was smaller because we had walked all through it, and how big can a place be when you can reach all of its corners on foot?  We never hesitated to bike anywhere within city limits, but walking felt more difficult. Now it does not.  Walks that felt distant now feel close. We can do that—no problem. Our town is compact (thank you,  Tom McCall and land use planning laws!) and we know it’s dimensions.  We can be walking up a forested hill in less than an hour, admiring the view from the top in an hour and a half.

                Corvallis also grew when we began to walk disances. We noticed small details, changing house designs, interesting landscapes, bee museums….everything that you can see while walking that you miss on a bike or in a car. We talked with people as we passed. We’ve found benches and views, hidden staircases and paths, and old developments where the houses were all built with the same pattern, but have all been altered with time to reflect their owners.  We learned where the rolling ridges and valleys of the old landscape are. We have studied the sidewalk markers. We know our neighborhoods. Kids started commenting “I saw you…” on Monday morning—usually far from my home.

                We love these long walks now. There is something about knowing that you can step out your own front door and head off down the street, wend your way through the neighborhoods, find soft paths in the woods, and come home, sore-footed and ready for dinner, without ever stepping into a car. Shrinking Corvallis, one step at a time.